


Fear Of Ghosts

by relucant



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apparently Lots of Water, Boys Kissing, Desert, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Hot Tub, Loss of Grace, M/M, Mark of Cain, Road Trips, Showers, Swimming Pools
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 07:24:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3125978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relucant/pseuds/relucant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is somewhere in the middle of Arizona when the sweat begins to prickle under his skin.  He scratches at his forearm and rubs at his hands, catching flaking flesh under his nails.  Cas eyes him from the passenger seat and says nothing.</p><p>"Fuckin' hate the desert," he mutters, and Cas nods wordlessly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this just kinda wormed itself into my head, and I wanted to write it. I don't know if/where it's going, whether just a tiny little thing or something more. please advise.
> 
> tags will be updated (and let's face it, rating will probably change) as it continues!

Dean is somewhere in the middle of Arizona when the sweat begins to prickle under his skin. He scratches at his forearm and rubs at his hands, catching flaking flesh under his nails. Cas eyes him from the passenger seat and says nothing.

"Fuckin' hate the desert," he mutters, and Cas nods wordlessly.

They turn north outside of Phoenix onto Route 93, a wasteland of tumbleweed and Joshua trees bleeding out towards Vegas. Briefly Dean considers stopping on the Strip, blowing someone else's money on cheap booze and pricey women, but there's no real appeal, that itch is gone, melted into others. He scratches his arm again without noticing.

Instead they skirt the city, slogging along to the northwest until they hit some podunk town just outside of Death Valley, and Dean figures it's as appropriate a place as any to spend the night.

He pulls into the first place he sees, some ragged-looking motel and RV park. Cas barely looks up when he goes inside, gets them a double from a bored woman with leathery skin and desert-blonde hair. He doesn't bother looking at the name on the Visa card.

Once inside Dean kicks on the window air conditioner and throws his duffle on one of the beds, collapsing on the other and looking around at the rustic decor.

"Is it really necessary to have fuckin' cactus paintings when you're already in the fuckin' desert?" he asks the ceiling. He's not really expecting a response from Cas, but he still grits his teeth when he doesn't get one.

"Are you ever gonna fuckin' _talk_?" he bites out. Cas just gives him a flat, disbelieving look.

Which, yeah, is fair; it's not like Dean Winchester is king of the small talk, or the big talk, or any kind of talking at all. And usually he finds Cas' taciturn company calming, but for some reason the angel's silence is getting under his skin.

He opens his mouth, not sure if he's going to apologize or snap again, but Cas stands up.

"I'm going to shower," he announces, and Dean blinks.

"Since when do you need to…?"

Cas shrugs. "I don't. But the air here makes me desire an actual shower as much as the cleanliness. I suppose it's a remnant from my time as a human."

"Huh," Dean says, intelligently, then clears his throat. "Uh, y'know, there's a pool here. An' I think a hot tub. If you wanna go, y'know, later." Because he's really not _trying_ to be a miserable asshole; he just doesn't want to be here, on an aimless road trip on the edge of fucking Nevada, surrounded by nothing by endless shades of brown and grey and the impossibly empty sky. He wants to be doing what he _should_ be doing -- saving people, hunting things, the give of a monster's flesh as he takes its head off. He wants sharp knives and the sharp tang of blood.

Which, Sam had said, is exactly why he needs to get away from it, even if only for a little while.

"I'd like that," Cas says, offering him a small smile, taking the olive branch.

"'Kay. We'll do that." He forces a smile in return, before realizing, confusedly, that it doesn't actually feel forced. "All right. Well. You take your take your human shower an' I'll see what we got for food options."

Cas turns and disappears into the bathroom, and as the shower comes on, Dean gets up to scour the room for the usual local area guide tucked into a drawer somewhere. Finding nothing but a tattered Bible, he gives up and pulls out his laptop.

"Christ," he mutters to himself, tapping through Yelp, "they really don't want people eatin' around here."

The shower finally shuts off, and a few moments later Cas steps out, fully dressed in his angel suit, but with water still lingering in his dark hair. Dean finds his eyes tracking one droplet as it slides down his jaw.

He coughs. "Yeah. Uh, options are pretty much, some saloon-lookin' place, just says it's got chili and beer, or we can grab a pizza and a twelve-pack and come back here. Or it looks like there's a Denny's just outside've town."

Cas shrugs. "You know I don't need to --"

"Yeah, yeah, you don't need to shower, either. Doesn't mean you don't get to have an opinion."

Cas gives him a scowl, an expression more at home on the face of a petulant child than a seraph, then sighs.

"Pizza is fine. I recall having it once, at the Gas n' Sip."

Dean blinks at him. "Dude. You mean the only pizza you ever tried was gas station pizza?"

Cas tilts his head. "I… yes? Are there different kinds?"

Dean stares at him for a moment, then startles himself by throwing his head back and laughing, the first full-bodied laugh he remembers hearing from himself in weeks.

"Yes, dude, there are different kinds. Hope this place is good -- Pizza Hut an' shit, you can always kinda count on 'em to be passable, but these little places are always either awful or amazing." He pokes around the sparse website, then shuts the laptop abruptly. "Just gonna walk down there, s'like a block and a half away. Should call Sammy anyway. You wanna come? Or you trust I want this pizza bad enough to not bolt?"

He means it as a joke, but it comes out flat. Cas eyes him, but shakes his head.

"I'll remain here. In the air conditioning."

Dean steps out into the early evening air, the day's heat still searing onto his skin. He considers taking the Impala, but the thought of pizza grease soaking into his Baby's leather makes him shudder.

The pizza joint, thankfully, is only about five minutes away, and the kitschy red-checkered tables are crammed with a promising number of people. He squints at the sign over the counter for a minute, then finally orders a large supreme pizza without olives, and a medium Hawaiian. He's never understood the point of putting _pineapple_ on pizza, but he somehow suspects that Cas might like the sharp-sweet flavors.

"Crust?" the man behind the counter grunts without looking up.

"Huh?"

"Deep dish or thin?"

"Oh. Uh… deep dish for the supreme, thin for the Hawaiian. And an order've bread sticks, extra sauce." He pays with his own cash, for once, then goes outside to wait, pulling out his phone.

Half an hour later he's hip-checking open the motel door, food balanced on one hand and beer swinging from his fingers, his phone still wedged between his shoulder and ear.

"Yeah," he's saying as he puts the pizza down, nearly dropping the phone as he tries to nod at Cas. "Yeah, I will. I dunno, man, hopefully out of the fucking _desert_ , at least. Yeah, blow me, bitch." He hangs up abruptly, but he's smiling.

"How is Sam?" Cas asks. He reaches for the remote and lowers the volume of the TV, tuned to a documentary on polar bears.

Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "He's OK. I can't say I'm not still pissed at him, shoving me out've the bunker and onto you to babysit, but I get it. And he says hi. Told him we'd call tomorrow night, but right now I want some fuckin' pizza."

He tears into a plastic bag, pulling out a small stack of paper plates. Flipping open the pizza boxes, he hears an appreciative sniff behind him, and grins.

"Smells good, huh?" he says. He piles a slice of each pizza onto two plates, handing one to Cas, then grabs breadsticks and the bag with the napkins and packets of parmesan and pepper. He sits down next to Cas on the bed and plops the bag between them.

Cas stares at his plate with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. Dean nudges him with his elbow.

"Thought you'd had pizza before, huh?"

"Yes, but -- it didn't look like this, or -- or _smell_ like this…"

"Toldja so," Dean says smugly. He picks up the supreme slice from his plate, grease already staining the paper. "This's kinda the classic. I'm a meat lover's dude myself, but you should try the real thing. An' don't tell Sammy, but I kinda like the veggies. Long as they're on pizza." He takes a huge bite, letting out a groan.

Cas follows suit more tentatively, and a pleased smile comes across his face. "You're right," he says, nibbling at a piece of pepperoni. "This is… _much_ different." He licks his finger, and Dean finds his eyes following the swipe of tongue.

Dean clears his throat, picking up the other slice. "Uh, and this is Hawaiian. Ham and pineapple. Still not really sure 'bout pineapple, but figured you should try somethin' interesting." He takes a small bite, ready to spit it out at the first squish of pineapple, but it, surprisingly, is not awful. "Huh."

Cas chews with his eyes closed, swallows. Then he plucks a piece of pineapple from the slice and pops it in his mouth, and lets out a small moan.

"Yeah?" Dean says, feeling oddly proud.

"Mm," Cas agrees. "It _does_ taste like Hawaii." He points at the box sitting between them. "What is that?"

"Breadsticks."

Cas pauses. "Bread? On a stick?"

Dean chokes back a laugh. "Uh, more like... a stick of bread." He sets down his plate and opens the box, thumbing the lid off the marinara sauce, and breaks a breadstick in half. He hands one to Castiel then dips his in the sauce, taking a bite.

"Mmph," he affirms. 

Cas does the same, chewing and swallowing, then repeats it, frowning. "I don't think I like these as well," he says, setting it aside. "I taste the chemicals."

Dean shrugs. "Can't blame you," he says. "Hell, even for humans, they're kinda gross. But somehow also delicious." He eats the last of his breadstick half in one bite, then picks up a slice of pizza again. "But you like this, yeah?"

"Mm," Cas agrees. He frowns thoughtfully at his plate, then plucks out a green pepper, tossing it to the side, before taking a huge bite. "This makes me very happy."

Dean can't help the mirroring smile spreading over his face. He gets up, fumbles two beers from the floor, pops them open and hands one to Cas.

They go through half the pizzas, Cas eating bite-by-bite, methodical, while Dean tears off chunks with gusto, occasionally munching on a breadstick.

Finally he pushes his plate aside, leaning back on the bed.

"Man, I needed that," he says with a perfunctory belch.

Cas nods, nibbling on a crust-end. He tosses his plate at the trash then lies back, fumbling for the remote. The polar bears are still on the TV, so he turns the volume up.

After an hour or so, after the polar bear documentary turned into insects and Dean makes a face, grabbing the remote and turning it to Food Network, Cas begins to fidget.

Dean turns his head. "What's up?"

"I, uh," he says. "Would you still like to go in the pool?"

Dean blinks at him for a moment. "Hell yeah! Dude, when I was coming back, I saw -- the pool's _heated_. Why would you need a heated pool in the _desert_?" He stands up, rubbing his stomach lightly. "Don't really have bathing suits, you OK with boxers?"

Cas nods, so Dean turns around, stripping down to his plaid flannel underwear. When he turns back, Cas is standing in his thin white cotton boxers, and Dean opens his mouth to tactfully inform him that no, back up a second, those are not appropriate swimwear, but somehow the words die in his throat.

He licks his lips.

They pad over the concrete, staying in the shadows. It's only 10:00 still, and the pool doesn't close until midnight, but it's unsettlingly quiet. Dean feels the heat of Cas' skin beside him.

When they get into the courtyard a gust of cold wind hits them, and Dean gasps.

"Christ," he says. "I've heard nights're cold in the desert, but… damn. I get the heated pool now."

He bends down, testing the water temperature, and a blissed-out expression settles on his face.

Cas follows him into the water, and they both bounce lightly through the shallows. Finally Dean leans against the wall in waist-deep water, kicking up his legs so he's half-floating. Cas watches him, then mimics him, kicking his feet awkwardly.

They lounge in silence, faces turned up to the half-moon.

"How are you, Dean?" Cas finally asks, keeping his eyes on the sky. "How are you, really?"

Dean tenses, ready to flinch away, but somehow, lying there in the bath-warm water, the anger doesn't course under his skin.

"I don't know," he says.

"Will you tell me about it?" Cas says, no judgment in his voice, and Dean hesitates.

"I don't know," he repeats. He listens to the ripple of the tiny waves. "I feel like -- like I'm not one thing or another, not fish nor fowl. Hell, even when I was a demon, it was like that, but this is -- it's not _worse_ , but -- it's harder."

The water laps at his skin. He feels Cas breathing next to him, warm and steady.

"What I did back there," he says. "Back in Pontiac." Far in the distance, something howls in the desert. "I know it was the Mark made me do it, was blind with it. Came back to myself, all that blood, and you -- and _Claire_ had to see it. See me do it." He pauses, chews his lip. "But, Cas -- I can't find it in me to regret it. Those guys -- they were as bad as the vampires, the werewolves. What they were gonna do. I never felt guilty gankin' them sons've bitches -- don't think it's any different if they're human monsters."

Cas is quiet for a minute.

"I never thanked you, Dean," he says at last.

Dean turns to him, automatically. "For what?"

"For what you did for Claire," he says. "If you hadn't -- if she'd --" He breaks off. "I know she's not my daughter, that I am not her father. But… I would -- I _will _\-- do anything to keep her safe."__

__Dean nods. He thinks of Ben, the way his smile lit up the room. The air is turning colder and he sinks down, until the water is at his chin._ _

__"Sometimes I think it's getting better," he finally says, then spits out a mouthful of chlorine, sitting up slightly. "Like it's there, but it's almost like… I dunno, just a normal fucking tattoo. Stings and itches, but I don't think about it. Don't need to find a knife, find somethin' to kill."_ _

__Cas reaches out his hand under the water, finding Dean's, and Dean doesn't jerk it away, doesn't ask what the fuck he's doing._ _

__"But it's there, Cas, you know it's there. It'll always be there, and someday it's gonna come out. Maybe not tomorrow, but someday. I can't go there again. I can't be that thing again."_ _

__Cas brings his fingertips over his forearm, over the Mark. It burns under the angel's touch, and Dean hisses, but somehow he's still calm, almost empty._ _

__"I can't promise you we'll fix this," he says, sadly, then presses his fingers tighter. Dean yelps, the ache snaking through his veins, but his fists don't clench and his face doesn't twist. "I won't make that promise. I don't know. But I have hope. And Sam has hope."_ _

__Dean is slightly out of breath, tremulous under the heat burning under the cool water, but he closes his eyes._ _

__"Yeah," he exhales, tilting his head back. "We'll fix this."_ _


	2. Chapter 2

Dean and Cas leave the motel by dawn, stopping at the only gas station open in whatever shitty little town it was -- Beatty, a sign suggested -- to gas up Baby. Dean debates stopping at the Denny's outside town for breakfast, but he just wants to be gone, out of the desert, so he grabs some sugar doughnuts and beef jerky from inside, along with watery gas-station coffee.

Cas steals a doughnut, sniffing at it suspiciously. He takes a small bite, and a range of expressions flicker across his face. Dean almost laughs, and Cas frowns at him, but when he's licking the sugar from his fingertips, Dean tosses him another.

The drive north is still silent, still tense, but something heavy and unspoken between them has dissipated. Dean's left hand drifts to his forearm, out of habit, but the urge to scratch isn't there, the itch to peel away at the skin.

They stop for lunch in Fernley, half an hour outside Reno. It's still scorching, and the sun seems closer than it has any right to be, but 300 miles in latitude and 4,000 feet in elevation dulls the searing heat a little. 

"So," Dean says, swallowing a bite of cheeseburger. "Road splits up here. Could start heading back east, through Salt Lake City and Denver. Or keep headin' northwest. Or whatever."

Cas nicks a fry from Dean's plate, munching thoughtfully and ignoring Dean's token protest.

"I would like to be out of the desert," he finally says. "I would like to see trees, and feel the rain."

"Pacific Northwest it is," Dean declares.

So Dean heads the car west, almost into Reno. He considers pulling Cas into one of the casinos, shoving the angel into the smoky games and sad slot machines, but he doesn't, and they turn onto Route 395 at the outskirts, just as the first lurid flashes of neon green and pink tip the tops of the buildings.

They pass into California and the desert stretches on, interminable. Dean stops for gas again in Hallelujah Junction, the first sign of remote civilization he's seen since Nevada, in the form of a lonely Shell station. It's all grey-brown grass and cracked pavement, ringed with ads for liquor and the state lotto; Dean almost makes a crack at the bleak irony of it all, fueling up with an angel of the Lord in this apocalyptic hellhole with a heavenly name, but Cas looks tired, staring out the window, and the comments shrivel on his tongue.

It's turning towards dusk by the time they get to Oregon, and at last the flat expanse of sand and rock begins to break up into patches of grass and Juniper trees. The sun sinks behind the distant mountain, leaving them silhouetted in orange.

" _Le crépuscule_ ," Cas murmurs absently.

"Huh?"

" _Le crépuscule_ ," he repeats. " _La tombée de la nuit_. They reference the same thing, but are not the same."

"Uh, little English here, buddy?"

"The moment of nightfall and the time of dusk. The moment of action, and the resultant state of being."

"Huh," Dean says again. He rubs his forearm on his jeans.

Finally signs start appearing for someplace called Klamath Falls, and even the occasional gas station or restaurant flickers by off the shoulder.

"Looks like we're about to hit an actual town," Dean says, nudging Cas. "You wanna stop here for the night? Still pretty early, could push on to Eugene or Portland, might even make the coast by midnight… Might as well see the Pacific long as we're here."

"I'd rather stop now," Cas says firmly.

"Gettin' tired of bein' cooped up?" Dean asks. "Don't worry, Baby, he's just not used to you." Cas strokes the leather, and something warm settles in Dean's stomach. He clears his throat. "All right, we'll find a place once we get near the town proper."

"Could we," Cas begins, then hesitates, and Dean glances over at him. "Could we go swimming again?"

"You liked that?"

"Yes," Cas affirms. "There's something very soothing about water."

"You seriously never been swimmin' in your millennia of angelness?"

Cas shrugs. "I never had occasion. Angels are not usually given to seeking physical pleasure."

Dean coughs, studiously ignoring the parts of his brain contemplating other physical pleasures Cas might be missing out on.

"M'kay. We'll stop for dinner first, then, an' I'll see if I can find us a place with a pool."

Cas smiles at him, soft and genuine, and Dean feels a reciprocal smile on his own face before he even notices.

They pull into the first diner they come by, and Cas watches Dean devour a chicken-fried steak sandwich with a look of faint horror. Dean grins at him, belches solemnly and orders a slice of cherry pie.

He pulls out his laptop, looking up local motels. Cas gets up and circles around the table, sliding into the booth next to him without invitation. Dean opens his mouth to protest, because _what the hell, buddy_ , but Cas is warm against his thigh, so he just angles the laptop between them.

"I have no idea where any of these places are," Dean admits.

The waitress appears with the pie, and Dean's eyes fall automatically to the tightness of her uniform, buttons stretching between her breasts. She eyes him with interest, and for a moment he considers it: a warm, soft body moving under his, delicate curves and a gentle mouth. But Cas' knee bumps against his, and his nascent fantasies stutter.

Dean coughs again.

He smiles up at the waitress as she deposits the pie. "Hey, uh -- we're lookin' for a place to stay here. An' my friend wants to go swimming. You got any ideas?"

Something disappointed flits across her face, but she smiles. "Yeah. Keep on this road, there's motels up along the lake. Prob'ly a little cold in that water, but the view's nice, and some have pools."

"Thanks," Dean says. He squeezes Cas' knee without thinking and freezes, but Cas just steals a bite of his pie.

They end up at a Quality Inn. It's spitting distance from the lake, dark and silent, and there's a hot tub just outside.

"You wanna?" Dean asks, tossing his duffel to the floor, and Cas just blinks. "The Jacuzzi."

"I don't know," Cas admits.

"You'll love it," Dean declares. He turns away, stripping off his t-shirt and jeans, and doesn't bother contemplating the way Cas' flimsy boxers will look under the water.

They make their way outside and Cas puts his toe in the water, a smile spreading across his face.

"It's _warm_ ," he says wonderingly, stepping down.

"Kinda the point," Dean says. He pushes himself onto a ledge, and pats the space next to him. Cas jumps at the jet of hot water on the small of his back, and Dean laughs. "Nice, huh?"

"I… think so?" Cas says uncertainly, sitting rigidly upright.

Dean nudges him with his shoulder. "Lie back," he instructs. "Like this." He angles his body so the water blasts against his spine, then shifts side to side to get his shoulders. He closes his eyes, groaning.

Tiny waves slap against his chest as Cas adjusts himself, leaning hesitantly back into the spray. They both prop their arms on the edge, elbows brushing.

"This is nice," Cas admits. He tilts his head up to the sky, still endless in the high desert, watching the stars.

"Toldja so," Dean says. He leans back, resting his neck on the pavement. "Cas?"

"Yes?"

"What're you gonna do? Your grace?"

Cas lifts a foot, considering his toes.

"I don't know," he says.

Dean turns his head. He lifts his arm, warm water dripping off the Mark etched into his skin. Cas raises his hand, then lets it drop back into the hot tub with a splash.

"God, we're a pair," Dean says at last. "I'm tryin' t'be human and you an angel." He laughs mirthlessly. "An' here we are. At a Quality Inn in Oregon."

Cas shifts over silently, until their hips are pressed together.

"Cas?"

Dean's voice cracks, off-kilter, but he doesn't shove Cas away. Cas hesitates, chewing his lip.

"It helps me, being near you," he admits.

"What? Becomin' an angel again?"

"No. Maybe." He lets his head fall back, dark hair shifting in the bright water, then sits up. "I feel -- okay, around you. As an angel, or… not."

He waits for the the blustering reassurance and the shoulder pushing him off, but Dean just exhales.

"I feel," Dean says, then stops. He tries again. "You --"

"You needn't say anything," Cas mumbles, looking at his hands. "I don't wish to --"

"Fuck that," Dean snaps. Cas recoils, and he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. Before he can think too hard, he snakes an arm around Cas' waist, tugging him closer. "Sam keeps me human," he finally says. Cas shrinks away, but Dean pulls him back in. "An' I keep him human, I think. But you… you keep me _me_. You _know_ me, Cas, Mark and all, and you still --"

He gives a frustrated growl, and Cas leans into him, tentative.

"I know you," he affirms. He pulls Dean's right arm out of the water, watching the way the drops fall off the raised skin.

"I," he says, thumbing down the vein, then turns to look at him. "May I?"

Dean opens his mouth to tell him to back off, enough's enough and all, but the sight of those huge blue eyes shimmering in the darkness, an angel of the Lord bending over the Mark of Cain seared into his forearm --

"Yeah," he sighs. He lifts his other hand, lets it hover over Cas' neck, then shoulder, before settling somewhere on his back.

Cas turns his head, until his mouth brushes against the scarred skin, and Dean's toes curl. He lets out a sound that could almost be called a whimper.

Cas pulls back. "Dean?" he says, still stroking his arm.

Dean rubs his face, willing the chlorine burn in his eyes to counteract the trail of goosebumps rippling up his bicep.

"I dunno, man," he finally says weakly. He lets himself sink until he's horizontal, and cool night air washes over his stomach as he floats.

His knee knocks against Castiel's, buffeted under the water, and he pulls away, but then Cas' hand is on his thigh.

"What the hell, dude," he mutters, sitting up and brushing the hair off of his forehead. "Personal space, yeah?"

Cas gives him a Look, a combination of age-old knowledge and infant human intuition, and Dean flinches. He opens his mouth to apologize, to say _something_ , but Cas takes his hand off his leg, putting inches of space between them.

"Cas," he says. The angel won't look at him. " _Cas_."

"What, Dean?" he finally says. He dips down for a moment, arching his back so the water sluices down the center of his ribs, pooling at his throat, then sits back up. He glances over, his eyes frank and shining and a little bit hurt. "You flinch when I touch you and you're angry when I don't. And you tell yourself that the Mark is the only reason -- that you wouldn't think these things otherwise. Wouldn't want me. Don't want me."

Anger flares in Dean's stomach, because of course he doesn't _want_ Castiel, not like -- he likes the closeness, he admits. Likes the warmth of his body near his, the brush of lips on his arm --

He clenches his fist.

"You're making this complicated," Cas comments to the air.

"Makin' _what_ complicated? Our _lives_ ain't exactly un-complicated. Case you missed it, you're fallin' from Heaven, and I'm half a demon."

Cas gives him a flat look. "Even when you _were_ a demon, you were a good man," he says. "Do you know that? It's -- unfathomable. Even Meg --" He pauses, and a spike of jealousy twists in Dean's stomach. "I cared for her," he admits. "I think she cared for me. But she was working for her own cause. You never have." His fingers trail over the surface of the water. "And I have never been much of an angel."

Dean flips over, lays his head on his elbow, one ear immersed.

"You raised me from Hell," he says. "You -- you saved me from bein' a, a full-on demon. You --"

"And yet you're ashamed to touch me," Cas says. The back of his head hits the pavement.

"I," Dean says, and swallows. "Yeah. I am."

Cas blinks at him. "Should I apologize?"

"No. Fuck." He scrapes an overgrown thumbnail against his index finger and clenches his teeth. "Not ashamed of you. But -- you're right, I --"

He stops again, fidgets. "Gotta hand it to the Mark, dunno if I'd've ever admitted that I like, you know. Dudes." He scrunches his knees up to his chest.

Cas watches him, and the moonlight flickers over a slight blush on his cheeks.

"Are you attracted to me, Dean?" he finally says.

"What?" Dean inhales a mouthful of water, sputtering, and Cas shrugs. "That's -- jeez, Cas, subtlety sure ain't your forte."

"I think it's only fair. If I know." 

"Are -- are _you_?"

"Yes," Cas says. "I did not expect to understand human attraction. But yes. I am."

"And you're just -- you're just OK with that?"

Cas blinks at him. "Are you asking if I'm comfortable an attraction to a male? Or to you?"

"Uh -- both, I guess. Either."

"Angels are utterly indifferent to sexual orientation," Cas reminds him. "I do not share in the prejudices of modern society." He pauses, and Dean considers changing the subject. "Yes, I am comfortable in my attraction to you. I don't wish to make you uneasy, but I trust you believe I would not act… inappropriately.

"What?" Dean says again, jerking his head up. "No, dude, that's not --" He sighs. "You don't make me uncomfortable, Cas. _I_ make me uncomfortable."

Cas is silent for a moment, trailing his hand over the bubbling surface of the water. "It's all right, you know. I've never expected… reciprocation. It changes nothing."

"I," Dean says. He coughs, shrinking into himself. "It's not -- that ain't what I'm afraid of."

"Then what --?"

"If I _do_ reciprocate, Cas. What changes if I do?"

Cas' eyes widen, and his face brightens. Dean ignores the way it makes his chest relax, and for a few seconds, the mark on his forearm feels like nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, there'll be boys kissin' soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the spotty updates to this and everything lately; writer's block's being a bastard.

Back in the motel room, Dean flops onto a bed, languid from the heat of the Jacuzzi.

"Gonna order dinner," Dean announces, one arm over his eyes. "Town should be big enough to find somethin', and fuck goin' back out again. Any preference?"

Cas shrugs, sitting down awkwardly on the other bed. "Not breadsticks?" he offers.

Dean snorts. "Not breadsticks." He sits up, plucking at his wet boxers. "You wanna shower? I'll see what we got to pick from." He pulls open his laptop, still not quite looking at Castiel. After a moment, Cas gets up, and the bathroom door clicks shut behind him.

Dean rubs the back of his neck, then stands up, flipping open the flimsy curtains. The lake etches a neat circle under the mountainous backdrop, ink-black under the dark sky. Behind him the shower thunks and churns for a second, then settles into a steady hiss.

They hadn't discussed their little non-confession since getting out of the hot tub. Something tense and jittery twists in his stomach, overriding the twine of anticipation. A train keens in the distance, low and lonely, over the mathematical ebb and flow of the wind. He sighs and goes back to his laptop.

"Chinese or Thai?" he calls, when Cas wanders out of the bathroom. He's only got fresh white boxers and a t-shirt on, and Dean swallows.

Cas tilts his head. "From my understanding, modern-day Chinese food resembles little of traditional fare. What is Thai?"

He sits on the bed, and Dean turns the laptop towards him, leaning against his shoulder. "This," he says, pulling up the menu.

Cas peruses it, water from his hair dripping on his shoulder. "I like soup," he says, and Dean rolls his eyes.

"So we'll get some tom… kha… whatever," he says. "Uh… pad thai? Yellow curry, whatever that means? Maybe some chicken… satay… stuff?"

Cas smiles at him. "Whatever you like, I'd like to try."

"OK. Oh, shit, they deliver beer? I like Oregon." He clicks a few more times, then shoves the laptop aside. "Gonna shower now. Won't be long, but can you get the door if they get here? S'already paid."

Cas gives him a flat look, and Dean takes a step back. "OK. Well." He grabs a towel and retreats into the bathroom, stripping off his damp boxers and stepping into the shower.

The shower pressure is hot and hard, and he leans into the wall, letting it beat into the knots in his back. He tries not to think of Cas' mouth brushing against his arm, and he almost succeeds. He keeps his hands off his cock with difficulty.

He steps out of the shower, drying off his hair. Cas' voice echoes in the bedroom, and the door slams. Dean realizes, belatedly, that he left clean clothes in his duffel. He debates calling Cas, but eventually just wraps the towel around his waist and steps out.

Cas has got the boxes of Thai food open on the little table, sniffing at each. "These are very fragrant," he says thoughtfully. "They smell of spices, and…" He trails off as he turns to face Dean, still gripping his towel and blinking water from his eyes. "Um."

Dean tries to shrug nonchalantly, but a flush creeps up his neck. "Forgot my clothes," he manages, crossing to his bag. He feels Cas' eyes on him as he bends over.

Finally he's more or less dressed -- decent, at least -- and sitting cross-legged next to Cas with an array of paper plates spread out on the bed. Cas ignores Dean's lessons on chopsticks, instead just slurping pad thai noodles from his fingertips. Dean resolutely does not track Cas' tongue as it licks errant sauce from his thumb. A documentary about the Indus Valley plays on the Discovery Channel, and Cas' attention is rapt.

"It wasn't like that," he says, plucking a piece of satay and smothering it in peanut sauce.

"Hm," Dean agrees, for lacking of anything wittier.

"They make it look so desolate. It was a beautiful place."

Dean can't quite bite back a snort. "Well, Cas, if this angel thing fizzles and all, least you can always be a fuckin' Discovery Channel historian."

Cas turns a hurt look to him, and something twists in his stomach. "Hey, no, 'm sorry, I was just kiddin'. Or, no, I wasn't, but --" He exhales loudly, then wipes his hand and puts it on Cas' shoulder. "I wasn't makin' fun of you. But it really is interesting, listening to you. Fuckin' fascinating, dude."

He opens the tub of soup, sniffing at it suspiciously, then holds it out to Cas in peace offering. Cas rolls his eyes but takes it, and Dean can't help the smile quirking at his lips at the human gesture. He yoinks the container of pad thai from between Cas' knees.

Pointedly snagging a pair of chopsticks, he swirls up some noodles and sprouts. With a smug smirk, he promptly drops the steaming pile on his shirt.

"Fuck!" he yelps, plucking his shirt away from his skin. "Ow, shit, ow!"

Cas stares at him for a moment, then doubles over in sudden, unexpected laughter. In the process, he upends the container of soup over his thighs.

"Fuck!" he swears, jumping up, and now Dean's choking with laughter, even as he's still trying to wipe the noodles off his shirt, already slipping down and soaking into his boxers.

He carefully sets the rest of the food aside, then stands up, looking down at the smears of food on his clothes.

"Guess we should've waited to shower," he says ruefully, making a face at the noodles drying on his legs.

"Mm," Cas agrees. He raises his hand. "Here, I can --"

Without thinking Dean reaches across the bed and grabs his wrist. "Cas, if you think you're gonna waste your grace on some fuckin' Thai food, you gotta another think comin'."

Cas looks up, startled, then sighs. "I suppose. Would you like to take the first shower this time? I'll clean up out here."

Dean stares at him a moment, then sighs. "Fuck it," he mutters. He lets go of Cas' hand and stomps off towards the bathroom, turning back halfway there. "You comin'?"

"I -- what?"

"Dude," Dean exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. "I doubt the hot water's gonna last much longer. We just wallowed in a Jacuzzi together, does it really matter?" He stops by the fridge and yanks out a beer, then strips off his t-shirt, flinging it into a corner, and the shower starts up again. The door stays open, and the water beats a staccato over the wind outside.

Cas stares after him, and then he's on his feet, padding slowly over the dull carpet. "Dean?" he says hesitantly, stepping into the bathroom.

"Mm," Dean grunts. "Shut th'door, you're lettin' the steam out."

Cas obliges, then peels off his own soup-stained shirt. He tugs open the shower curtain and climbs inside.

Dean's eyes are closed and his back to Cas. He's still wearing his plaid flannel boxers, but they're soaked to the skin and clinging to Dean's ass. Cas' mouth goes dry, and he's suddenly acutely aware of the transparency of his white cotton shorts.

Dean picks up the beer bottle he's wedged in a corner of the shower and takes a gulp, then reaches back, handing it to Cas. Cas sips at it, then takes a longer drink, setting it on the tile floor.

Dean turns around, sliding behind Cas and nudging him under the spray, and suddenly Cas is angry. Dean wants him; Cas knows Dean wants him; and Dean _knows_ that Cas knows that Dean wants him. And here, almost naked in the hot shower, he won't even meet his eyes.

Cas bends down, pours a healthy glop of shampoo onto his palm, and reaches up to twine his hand into Dean's hair. Dean's eyes shoot up.

"What the _hell_ , Cas!" he yelps, but Cas, emboldened by the intimacy of the shower, twists one finger in his soapy hair.

"Really, Dean?" he says. "You invited me into the shower with you. In case you aren't aware, that's not something platonic friends usually do."

Dean rolls his shoulders, and Cas watches the water sluice down his jawline. Dean absently rubs his thumb against his scarred forearm, and his cock twitches visibly. Cas doesn't miss it.

He leans back against the wall, notes the way Dean's body follows his for a second before pulling back, bending down for the beer.

"I'll never give you an ultimatum," Cas blurts, without meaning to, and Dean's head jerks up.

"You -- what?"

"No. I just meant -- shit." Cas scrubs a soapy hand over his face. "If you never want to act on this -- on what there is between us. I won't judge you -- I won't hate you. It won't change anything." He lifts a hand to thumb at Dean's jaw. "I swear this to you. But please -- don't pretend it isn't there."

Dean opens his mouth, narrows his eyes, then exhales. He trails a finger down Cas' sternum, watching the way the droplets divide under his nail.

"It's there," he acknowledges.

Cas watches him. "I would like to kiss you," he states, matter-of-fact.

Dean snorts weakly. "Dude, you can't just _say_ that."

"I just did." Cas drags a finger along Dean's collarbone. "I would like to very much."

"Okay, but --" He takes a deep breath, and almost leans forward when the water from the shower turns ice-cold. "Fuck!" he yelps, pushing the curtain out of the way and stumbling into the steamy bathroom, gasping and half-laughing. "Way to kill the mood." He hears a shriek behind him, then a scrabbling, and the water shuts off.

"That wasn't ideal," Cas admits.

Dean watches him, taking in the strange sight of the angel shivering, then turns around and shoves him towards the cleanest of the double beds. Rooting through the duffel, he digs up two fresh pairs of boxers, tossing one to Cas and changing quickly in the corner. He grabs the remote, turns out the light, and flips the TV towards another stupid nature documentary. 

A train wails outside, and Cas' hand finds his under the sheets. He doesn't pull away.

Cas turns to him, eyes shimmering in the half-light of the television.

"I'm sorry," he admits. "I don't know how long I will survive this. It makes me selfish."

"Fuck that," Dean snaps. Cas recoils, and Dean reaches out to him. "You ain't selfish, Cas. You're gonna survive this, we're gonna figure it out. Your grace an' the Mark. We always do."

He thinks of his life without Castiel, without his angel, and he chokes back a brief sob, fingers curling.

The sky cracks open outside, and it begins to rain on the edge of the desert.

"Dean?" Cas asks, uncertain, wiping away a teardrop.

Dean blinks up at him, and finally they're kissing, sad and desperate, all lips and teeth and nervous tongues.

"Shit," Dean gasps, dropping his head back. Cas tilts his head to press his lips against Dean's throat, whispering endless litanies into his skin.

"Is this," Dean croaks, tears still pooling in his eyes. "Is this it? Is this all we get?"

Cas draws back, stares at him. "No," he says at last. "My grace is strong, for now. It will fade, but… We have time."

"We will _fix it_ ," Dean snarls. He scrubs at his eyes. "Christ, s'probably what Sammy's been researching. Cas, if we're gonna fix me, we're gonna fix you." He trails his hands down Cas' torso, tapping his thumbs on his ribs.

"Stay with me?" he asks quietly. "Not like -- just like this, just for tonight?" He rests his head on the angel's shoulder and hopes he understands.

Cas sighs, a low, sweet counterpoint to the wind and rain. He fits a hand around Dean's hipbone, tugs him closer. "Yes, Dean," he murmurs into the golden hair. "As long as you'll have me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks be to shiphitsthefan for the late night/early morning read-through <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i needed a break from the pure PWP one-shots i've been immersed in lately, so decided to revisit this thing. i feel weird about it, but that's okay too.

Dean wakes up with his face buried in something soft and warm. He stretches, shifting away, but the insistent body next to him burrows closer, and he registers the weight of arms wrapped around his back.

"Cas..."

"No," Cas mutters. He hooks a foot around Dean's ankle.

Dean lets himself have this for a minute, in the sleep-haze: Cas' breath fluttering on his neck, soft-sighing against him, and the clean smell of his hair.

" _Cas_."

Cas blinks up at him, then looks down at their intertwined bodies.

"Oh," he says softly, twisting away and hunching in on himself.

Dean exhales loudly. The rain hasn't let up all night and it can't be far past dawn, wet grey light oozing in through the curtains.

Tentatively, Dean rolls over, fitting his hand on Cas' shoulder. Cas stiffens, then leans back against him.

"I ain't ignorin' this," Dean mumbles into Cas' neck. "Can't lie, I kinda wanna, but I'm done." He brushes his lips against Cas' skin, and a train wails in the distance. 

"Look," Dean says, faltering. Cas just waits, silent and tense, until Dean snakes an arm around him, spreading his fingers on his chest. "I'm gonna fuck this up, Cas," he mutters, fingertips tapping on breastbone. "Like everything."

He realizes, belatedly, that he's hard, teenage-grade morning wood pressed into the small of Cas' back.

Cas shifts, and for a second Dean flinches, thinks he's going to move away, but then Cas reaches his arm back slowly, around Dean's waist, until his hand slides over the curve of Dean's ass over the flannel boxers, pulling him closer. Dean's cock jerks against him.

"Is this okay?" Cas murmurs, still not facing him.

A beat goes by, then another, the silence hanging louder than the rain.

"I don't know," Dean finally says, and Cas freezes, but Dean doesn't move, doesn't push him away. Instead his fingers creep down Cas' stomach, thumb stroking along the play of muscles, brushing through the wispy trail of hair.

"Dean?" Cas says, his voice cracking.

"Shh," Dean whispers. His hand drifts lower, toying at the waistband of Cas' boxers. Cas inhales sharply; his fingers flex, gripping at the flesh of Dean's ass. He stills himself with effort.

"I meant it, Dean." He brings up his hand to stroke Dean's hair. "You don't have to… do this. I won't think --"

He trails off with a shudder as Dean's fingers move down to graze over his cock, already rock-hard under the thin cotton.

"I want to," Dean says, and there's rare open honesty in his voice. He kisses Cas' neck, then his ear, along his jaw, into the corner of his mouth.

"Is this a dream?" Cas blurts, unable to keep his hips from jerking against Dean's hand. The morning light is stronger but no less flat, weak shadows filtering onto the bed.

Dean snorts a laugh, tickling Cas' neck. "Dude. I -- I can't promise you 'm not gonna be a dick about this. But I'm tired of this shit." He flexes his forearm, the Mark shimmering in the half-light. He breathes in, then slides his hand into Cas' boxers.

Cas gasps, his back arching. "Dean…"

"Shh," Dean whispers again. "Let me do this." He pauses, his hand stilling. "I mean -- if you want --?"

Cas turns his head, just enough to give him a flat, disbelieving look, tempered by raw desire.

"Okay then," Dean breathes. "Okay."

He slips his hand lower, and finally his thumb drags against Cas' cock. He's still waiting for the revulsion to hit, his hand on another man's dick, but the skin is soft and hard and warm, heavy in his palm.

He squeezes tentatively, until Cas chokes out a high, broken sound, and suddenly all of Dean's little fears and insecurities break like a dam, because all he wants is to pull more of those sounds from the angel.

"Fuck," Dean murmurs, hot against Cas' ear.

Cas' hand trails back down until his fingers are gripping Dean's ass, and Dean bites back a gasp. His cock is dripping through his boxers, wet against Cas' spine.

" _Dean_ ," Cas hisses, head tipping back. Dean shudders, his lips on the taut lines of Cas' throat. He slides his hand up just long enough to tug Cas' left thigh back over his own, until Cas' legs are spread and bent.

"Okay, angel?"

"Please…" Cas' voice is barely more than a breath, but something in Dean's head goes white and staticky at the sound of Castiel begging.

"Yeah," he whispers. "Yeah, I know." He lets his fingers sweep back down, across the sharp jut of hipbones and the prickles of sweat.

Cas' muscles twitch and his breath goes short and labored. Dean grinds against him, stroking over his cock.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs into the mess of soft hair. Cas goes stiff, inching away, but Dean just presses a kiss to his ear. "Want this. I do. I just... I suck at it. 'm sorry." The rain beats a staccato on Baby's hood outside, and distantly, incongruously, Dean wonders if her windows are up.

Cas' hips jerk back involuntarily, adding friction against Dean's dick and pressure on his own, and they let out twin groans.

Dean tells himself to hurry up, to get it over with, to wipe his hand off on the bedspread and deal with it in the morning, but every sound falling from Cas' lips makes him draw it out, fitting his body in closer. Cas' eyes are closed and mouth open, pink and spit-slick, and Dean increases the pace of his fist.

"Dean," Cas hisses, fingers digging into Dean's ass. "I'm -- you're --"

"Yeah." He feels Cas' balls tightening as his knuckles brush against them; he wants to yank his hand away, let Cas grind his release into the bedsheets, maybe kiss his shoulderblade before rolling back to his own side of the bed.

Except he doesn't, at all. He wants to feel Cas shaking when he comes -- he wants to _taste_ it, he realizes with a jolt, wants that heat in his mouth. And wants Cas' fingers to wander, drifting down from his back.

"Another time," Cas whispers, even though Dean hasn't said a word, and Dean chokes a laugh even as he scowls.

"Dude." 

"Another time," Cas reiterates.

Dean tightens his hand, letting Castiel thrust into it, and then the angel goes still, hot wetness spilling through Dean's fingers, accompanied by a tiny sigh.

"Jesus," Dean croaks. He still doesn't move his hand, doesn't shake off the ropes of come seeping through the thin cotton boxers and onto the sheets, just listens to the broken aftershocks as Cas melts into the bed.

"Let me feel," Cas murmurs as Dean grinds against him. "Please."

Dean sucks in a deep breath. He lifts his hand, pulling Cas close against him even as he smears come across his belly.

"Okay?" he murmurs, ignoring his own dick still trapped against Cas' back. "Good?"

" _Yes_ ," Cas insists, then pauses. "No." With unsettling grace he flips himself around until his come-sticky stomach is pressed against Dean's. Without preamble he reaches into Dean's boxers and wraps a hand around his cock.

Dean chokes at the sensation. Instinctively he almost shoves Cas away and stomps off to the bathroom, but Cas' fingers are warm and thick and sweat-damp, similar but so different from the delicate hands he's used to.

"Fuck." His head falls back, Cas' smile against his collarbone.

"Not tonight," Cas whispers, reassurance laced with promise, and Dean can't quite bite back an involuntary moan.

Cas strokes him with purpose, and it's less than a minute before he's coming into Cas' hand with little more than a shudder and a sigh.

They're silent for a few moments, until Cas drags his hand out of Dean's underwear, leaving a trail of sticky goosebumps. He licks his fingers once, curiously, then wipes them inelegantly on the sheets.

Dean squirms away after a few deep breaths, rolling onto his back. Cas flinches, waiting for the freak-out, but Dean doesn't move far, bodies still pressed together shoulder to hip.

Cas opens his mouth, not sure of what he's going to say, but before he can speak Dean dissolves into choking, near-hysterical laughter.

"Dean?" Cas says, alarmed. Dean just flaps a hand, so Cas waits it out until the laughs turn into hiccups, then muted snickers. 

"Sorry," Dean finally manages. "I just -- Jesus."

"Is that good or bad?" Cas asks uncertainly, and Dean barely suppresses another bout of laughter.

"Dunno. Both?" He finally cracks an eyelid to glance down at the Mark, still dull and dormant on his forearm. Cas is still watching him like he's about to bolt, so he rolls over again, ignoring the tacky smears drying on skin as he pulls Cas against his chest.

"So." 

"So," Cas agrees.

They don't say anything more, and Dean can't help but wonder what's going to come crashing down in the morning, but for the moment the silence is soft and soothing, the rain like a lullaby on the pavement.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://relucant.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/relucanting). I'm nice.


End file.
